


Blind Love

by TalentedLoser



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:49:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalentedLoser/pseuds/TalentedLoser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just another day at the park, and no one bothered the two men sitting on the bench.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind Love

**Author's Note:**

> Something not angst, not as MUCH at least. There's fluff galore.

No one bothered the two men on the bench near the pond. They were older gentleman, far older than the generations surrounding them in the park. One had an umbrella resting against his leg; the other had a white cane.

If someone were to ask how they met, it was there at the park, years and years ago. They hadn't met on purpose; it was all on accident. The man with the umbrella-funny enough, he had an umbrella just like the one he had now-sat down on the bench to take a break from life. He was a fine politician, one that wanted to rule the government with his iron fist. He admired the park, admired the true beauty around.

On that bench was the man with the white cane. The man with the umbrella knew far too well what that implied: he was blind. Yet there he was, sitting on the bench, looking out at the waters that moved with the slight breeze. "Isn't it lovely?" the blind man asked. These were the first words spoken between the two. The other man turned his head.

"What ever do you mean?" He asked back. The blind man smiled and continued to look around.

"Where we are, the park. It's very relaxing to be here, especially with everything that surrounds this pond here," the blind man replied. The other man's eyebrow slightly raised, wondering how in the world he knew what was there at the park. The blind man chuckled. "Now, I know what you're thinking. How did I come to know what's here? Been at this park for a few years now, just sitting here," the other man looked out toward the pond.

"So you have come to know this land quite well."

The other man replied: "Yes, actually. I know which routes to take if you want a short walk, where each tree is implemented, what fish are in the pond ahead, and where this bench resides." The other man looked back at him.

"Impressive," he whispered, "although anyone with eyes could do the same thing." The blind man's smile grew.

"Yes, and I haven't a pair of those," he remarked. Suddenly, the blind man turned to the other man and held out his hand. "The name's Lestrade."

The other man placed his hand inside. "Mycroft," he replied. A slight squeeze came from Lestrade's hand, and Mycroft tore his hand away-it was not an impolite thing to do. "Is Lestrade your first name?"

"Is your profession part of the government?" Mycroft sat there in shock; how could this man possibly know? "Your grip," he remarked. Lestrade looked down at his hand, as if he could see it. "It was firm, noble, kind of like a politician's. I've shaken enough of those hands in my life to know it by heart."

Mycroft felt safe once more-this man was not a security risk. "No," Lestrade said.

"I beg your pardon?"

Lestrade turned his head to Mycroft and smiled. "First name's Greg, but I rather like the name Lestrade better."

From then on, they would meet at the park, sitting side-by-side, resting on the same bench as always. Rain or shine, too-if it were raining, Mycroft always had the umbrella, and they sat underneath it for almost an hour. Of course, Mycroft would offer Lestrade a ride home (Lestrade always accepted it). For the first few years, they had gotten to know the other quite well (Lestrade hated being called Greg, although Mycroft took a liking to it; Mycroft loved wearing suits, even on casual days, to which Lestrade replied: "Suits, blah. You could never get me in one of those.").

Then after the first few years, Lestrade asked the question: "Say, you're always here at the same time. Haven't you a family?" Mycroft watched as Lestrade twirled his cane around, spinning it in the same spot-he'd yet to figure out what that meant.

"No, work rather keeps me busy, and I haven't the time for a family. Rather, I cannot biologically have a family even if I attempted," Lestrade stopped moving his cane (it bothered Mycroft to no end).

Lestrade then looked over at Mycroft. "Are you incapable of having children?"

Mycroft laughed at the remark, but smiled. "No, no, it's not that. How should I put this...I am not in the least bit attracted to those of the opposite sex."

Lestrade's eyebrows rose. "You don't say," he said. Mycroft just stared. "But, the woman that is with you all the time-"

Mycroft looked up at the parked car in the street, the woman leaning against the car. "Personal assistant. They come with the government position." Lestrade hummed, then bent his head, looking down at his white cane. Mycroft turned his head back around to the pond, but noticed him spinning the cane again.

The next week, Lestrade would ask Mycroft out on a date. Mycroft finally knew what it meant when he was spinning the cane: he was nervous. He spun it the entire time he asked the question. Mycroft just smiled. He couldn't deny it, he rather enjoyed Lestrade's company, especially when he had something interesting to say. Plus, he was charming, handsome, clever, and open-minded about a lot. It sparked enough of an interest in Mycroft; Lestrade was the exact same way.

Over the years-they couldn't tell you how many, it was their own secret for each other-they loved, made love, shared stories, and grew old together, which was where they were now. And they never missed a day when they could go to the park, it never failed. When Mycroft retired from the government (Lestrade complained that he missed him terribly, and Mycroft couldn't handle the politics of anything anymore, not when he had Lestrade), they spent more time together. Inside or out, they never left the others' side.

So on that bench there they sat. Their hands were together, their bodies close together. Mycroft squeezed Lestrade's hand and said: "Isn't it lovely, Greg?" It really was, judging by the weather. It was a gorgeous day, the sun in the sky, a few clouds in the sky. The flowers around the blue pond blooming colors of the rainbow, the trees slightly rustling from the slight breeze. Lestrade slightly turned his head.

"Is everything alright?" Lestrade knew when Mycroft was upset or slightly annoyed with something; he always squeezed his hand, not the other way around. Mycroft knew Lestrade had him figured out, too, and he knew he had to tell Lestrade someday. But, he couldn't.

"Not in the slightest," he replied, "although, it is no one's fault but mine." Lestrade slightly moved on the bench and turned to Mycroft, looking at him through the black glasses.

"You know you can tell me," he whispered. He was a bit worried. Was Mycroft okay? Had he been sick? Lestrade couldn't keep the pessimistic thoughts away. Mycroft reassured him by rubbing the skin on the back of his hand with his thumb; Lestrade relaxed. "What's wrong?"

"I'm afraid," he said. A little pause entered their world, and Lestrade anxiously waited for a response. But time passed, and he wanted to know.

"Of what?"

Mycroft bent his head a little. "My world is going dark," he whispered.

Lestrade understood. He turned back to the pond and sat beside his partner and lover, head resting on Mycroft's shoulder. "Mycroft," he muttered, "when did it begin?" Mycroft looked down at their conjoined hands.

"A few weeks ago, when I had broken the tea set that one day," Lestrade remembered how they joked about it.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Mycroft frowned, rubbing the skin on Lestrade's hand while squeezing it. Lestrade squeezed back.

"Because I'm terrified, Greg," Lestrade started to feel Mycroft shake a little, then he felt Mycroft turn his head in every direction, looking around. "This world, it will be black as night in a few months. I will not see any of it when that day comes," Mycroft stopped looking around, then looked back down at their hands. He felt his eyes were wet. "I will not see you."

Lestrade frowned. "Do you need to see me to know that you love me?"

Mycroft held his firm grip with Lestrade's strong one. "No," he whispered, "but you're all I care to see in my world."

Lestrade closed his eyes and pictured the pond, the trees, the flowers, the sky, the sun, the children around, the parents-he pictured the bench they were sitting at, and he could see Mycroft, as young as can be, in one of his numerous suits, admiring the view. "Funny," he said, as he still stared at Mycroft in his world. Not once would he turn his head to look at Mycroft, but he knew he was there. "I cannot see, yet you are my world."

Mycroft took in a sharp intake of air and felt a few tears fall from his eyes. He closed his eyes; he could see everything he wanted in the world, and the only thing there was Lestrade. Everything else didn't matter. He tightly squeezed Lestrade's hand, Lestrade doing the same. He could hear Mycroft quietly mumble: "I love you" at random times, as if he were holding on for dear life. Mycroft was not upset, though; he was the happiest man alive.

Lestrade placed his free hand over their joined ones, and smiled. Mycroft did the same thing.

"And I see my love for you," Lestrade whispered, "I always will."


End file.
